November 2, 2013

...of course dreams have skin...

'Vertumnus and Pomona' by François Boucher  c1740

yes Pomona, take the keys

we steal beneath
a cover of leaves
wept skeleton
pet velvet grasses
along cemetery’s walls

Summer long past us
with her beans for magic
seeded sown fertile tragic
hurled in husks
we feasted

we watched her die 
further into each dusk
her last breaths becoming
death more quickly
sharper with each incantation
she was a slide rule warm bath
our cut veins feeding
the bare arm sentinel trees
who only whisper
in small hone whistles
for more noise
and bones outside
our windows

each rake of wind
tells the stories
of shadows
farming bared
roaming loams
becoming stilled
and instilled
distilled between
thirst arbor trestles
lattices received
and the cages of rain
we turned fetal here
huddled, earning
what wings shorn cost

a cow bell milks
a silence growing
into symphony dawn’s
ever dark again

we vine
the hearth
coals tended
herded glowing
we climbed
we promised
to live inside
the pulps until
Spring comes
to complete our sin


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